


It All Starts Somewhere

by Sporadic_Writer



Series: In the Fishbowl [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadic_Writer/pseuds/Sporadic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade meets an intriguing figure of power who's really exasperating.</p><p>(I don't think anyone is going to check my LJ, but just in case someone does, I just want to explain that I didn't like the story's original title and have changed it.  The title used to be "From the Beginning.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this story in 2012, and I am just archiving it here.

Status of work: Complete  
Characters and/or pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (pre-slash), Sherlock & Lestrade friendship  
Rating: PG-13.  
Warnings, kinks & contents: Brief mention of sexual activity. Mention of explosives and drug use. Snark.  
Spoilers: I don't think there are any. This fanfiction takes place before any of the episodes.  
Length: Around 5, 800 words.  
Author's note: I love questions, so please feel free to ask about the story.

Summary: Lestrade didn't know Sherlock yet. He hadn't even met the young man. The first Holmes Lestrade met was Mycroft, who was at once intimidating and human. And mysterious and not a little bit aggravating.

UPDATE: Sequel: Second to the Door.

 

Sherlock sulked as they walked along back to Baker’s Street. John hurried to catch up with the other man’s long steps. He watched Sherlock’s back unsympathetically.

“Sherlock, Lestrade had every right to tell you to clear off after you violated the rules.”

“Rules! Ha, police procedure limits the mind, John. It is no wonder the police have such a low catch percentage.”

“70% is respectable, Sherlock. And I wasn’t talking about police procedure. I meant that contract Lestrade had you sign when he finally let you onto the crime scenes.”

Sherlock whirled around and stalked back to John. “How did you know about that?” he demanded.

“Your blogger, remember? Lestrade pulled me aside after the fourth time you dragged me to a crime scene and asked me to sign the contract too.”

“Hm,” Sherlock murmured as his interest in the conversation waned, and he became absorbed in something he held in his hands.

“What’s that?” John frowned as he got a good look at the object.

“Lestrade’s wallet.”

“Now he’ll have excellent grounds for arresting you too.”

“Shush!” Sherlock’s brows drew together as he looked unusually tense. With one hand he lifted the wallet and seemed to gauge the weight thoughtfully.

“Something’s different,” he said slowly. He tossed the wallet into the air again. “It’s heavier this time. It’s not money. Lestrade only goes to the bank on Thursdays. He hasn’t looked very preoccupied during work, so he wouldn’t be having any long-standing bills.”

John rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “Why don’t you have a look in his wallet? You’ve already stolen it. He won’t believe that you haven’t snooped.”

Sherlock was barely listening. He rapidly flipped through the cards and receipts and loose bills before yanking out one final item. His eyes sparked with triumph.

“Ah, Sherlock!” John tugged the other man to a nearby store awning where he could wave around a condom and dissect its meaning loudly without blocking pedestrian traffic.

Sherlock snorted rudely. “Look here. It’s the perfect example of even semi-intelligent people losing their gray matter when it comes to sex. How many little holes must this thing have?”

“It looks rather new,” John contributed on Lestrade’s behalf.

“That’s not the point. You’re a doctor. What petty bit of advice do you give all those hormonal teenagers? Never put the contraceptive aids in a place with a great deal of friction. Defeats the whole purpose.”

“If you want Lestrade to be better informed about sex, then you had better do the talk. I am not taking that responsibility,” John said, adamantly. He wondered if they’d have time to drop by the sweets shop before his shift. Maybe not. Sherlock looked ready to get on the soapbox.

“Hm, yes, I’ll do that sometime. He needs to know,” Sherlock murmured. He put everything back methodically and then smelled the worn brown leather.

Sherlock hummed happily to himself as he began a new induction. “I see that Lestrade is involved in a long-term relationship.”

John perked up with interest. Yes, yes, he enjoys crap telly, like soap operas and other drama shows about relationships. “How do you know?”

Sherlock indicated barely perceptible splashes of darker brown. “Cologne. Only oil leaves this sort of discoloration. Where do you leave your cologne? The shelf above the mirror in the toilet. Or possibly the bedside table. How did the cologne get into contact with your bedmate’s wallet? They actually bother to take it out of their pants, so they can get comfortable—with you.”

“You know, people don’t really use the word ‘bedmate’ anymore.”

“What?” Sherlock looked irritated and somewhat petulant.

“I was just pointing out—“

“Yes, yes, enjoy your moment. I can’t be bothered to be colloquial,” he enunciated the word exaggeratedly, “when there’s a mystery to be solved. And I can’t believe you would just overlook my thought process.”

“Well, you did a brill job as always,” John said hastily and watched Sherlock preen.

***********

“Detective Inspector,” Donovan had opened the door without knocking, a first; despite her blunt manner of speaking, she displayed a strong consideration for privacy and personal spaces.

Precisely two footsteps behind her came a man in a gray suit, the make of which Lestrade couldn’t identify but knew to be quality stuff. He eyed the newcomer warily. The man had no badge, no papers that he could see—simply a long black umbrella with an elegantly carved silver handle.

The man simply looked around the room once and then focused on Lestrade with a genial smile.

Seconds passed. Lestrade felt compelled to start the conversation. “Are you here to report something?” He had discarded other openers for being too rude or inane. Something about the man’s demeanor raised the hair on his arms.

Reminded him of those real life James Bond types. Except significantly more drab than debonair. But quite as lethal and resourceful. More so, Lestrade amended, as he watched the elegant hands wrap coolly around the umbrella head.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. I prefer to avoid overly long explanations. I believe that this—” He extended a thin sheaf of papers. “—will do nicely.”

Lestrade almost gawked at him before professional automation took over, and he glanced quickly at the first page where upon his attention was quickly caught by the Chief Superintendent’s signature. A real one, not a stamp.

Flipping through the rest, Lestrade garnered several key facts: one, an individual named Samuel Davies (sounded like a false name) had a notably long list of previous offenses; two, Davies was currently wanted badly for a vague citation that added up to nothing more than as a person of interest; and three, apparently, a certain Detective Inspector had been summarily appointed to assist in the case.

Lestrade drained the dregs of his tepid coffee, idly wondered if the unnamed man in his office would mind his breath, and asked him to have a seat, which the man took with an ironic look.

***********

Marlowe (Lestrade had a funny feeling about the names he’d heard lately) laid his head back against the plush rest and closed his eyes. It seemed that half an hour’s worth of talk had worn him out.

Lestrade shifted slightly before he stilled himself. He glanced out the car window at the sweets shop. He hadn’t expected that his early experience with narcotics to come in handy so late in the game.

“I shall have all the information that you can recall about Bertie’s Tasty Treats. The man we’re seeking is known to frequent that shop regularly.”

Lestrade tapped his finger against his chin as he thought. Marlowe didn’t ask much, did he? After three years, one drug bust could hardly be differentiated from the multitude of others. The one thing clear was that Bertie’s hadn’t left a permanent mark. A fellow copper’s death would have highlighted his memory.

Lestrade opened his mouth to explain, but Marlowe brought a finger up. Taken aback by the touch of whimsy, Lestrade shut his mouth with an embarrassing click of teeth.

“Take a moment, Detective Inspector. You’ll find the memories come more easily that way” came the idly spoken, yet firm, suggestion. Marlowe sat up and flicked upon his pocket watch (in this day and age? Lestrade marveled) and proceeded to stare at the face for a good minute or so.

Presumably politely giving Lestrade time to follow his orders.

Chafing somewhat at the man’s arrogance, Lestrade did close his eyes and let his mind drift back to the short stakeout done at Bertie’s. He considered the images drifting in bits and pieces across his memory banks.

“Look, I’ll tell you what I remember, but I guarantee it won’t be much,” Lestrade said abruptly. Marlowe seemed the type of man who needed things made clear in advance before he started demanding the impossible.

“Of course, Detective Inspector, whatever you remember.”

Stifling his reaction to Marlowe’s soothing tone, Lestrade explained, “We got a tip on a slow day about suspicious activity, so my partner Branson and I got sent out to check around and report back.”

Before Lestrade could clarify, Marlowe nodded easily. “Sergeant Ian Branson. Belfast. Newport. Liverpool.”

Flummoxed, Lestrade stared and coughed out, “I suppose. Don’t know really. Knew he was from Liverpool before he transferred here—“

“Never mind. Go on, please.”

“Well, we certainly noted that the shop had a few too many dustmen going back and forth from the bins to the lorry. After we called in their looks, one of the men back at the station got a hit for a dangerous character. Must be your Samuel Davies. The name we got was something unusual. Type of bird.”

“Richard Sallow, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t say,” Lestrade returned dryly, wondering why this Marlowe wanted to pick his brain despite showing full marks for Year’s End Stalker. He wondered whether he should continue. Marlowe’s interest seemed to wane; his focus was currently on his phone, yet the man nodded in acknowledgment.

“Anyway, then things went to shit.” Lestrade felt a moment’s chagrin for swearing in front of a stranger, but that night’s events couldn’t fit a better descriptor.

“The owner, Bertie himself, came out and kicked up a fuss with one of the dustmen, who wasted no time bringing out a pistol. We hustled over and took them by surprise. Backup had arrived by then, so we caught most of them. But I remember one (the dangerous one, the Davies man) made it off after clubbing Branson over the head while I checked on Bertie.”

Lestrade scoffed to himself. “If I’d known Bertie, that bastard, had his fingers in the pie, I would have left him and kept my eye on my partner, like I should have done.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. You’ve given me a very helpful summary of the events,” Marlowe said distantly, his hands moving quickly over a small rectangular object. He tapped on the glass partition in a curious pattern before moving somewhat into Lestrade’s space.

Marlowe put a hand on the inner handle and remarked, “Please remain patient. I would have liked to take you back to the station beforehand, but I’m afraid that time has played tricks on me.”

With that cryptic apology, the man stepped out of the car and was out of sight within seconds before Lestrade could ask him to explain. Taken aback, Lestrade sat on the plush upholstery for a long moment before his mini-devil told him to take no orders and get on over there, as he pleases.

It would take him several days later to wonder about the door being unlocked.

He could hear soft murmurs echoing down the metal hallway as he made his way past the various sweets machines. He supposed that the neighborhood ought to be happy. As Bertie’s Tasty Treats promised on its banner, the goodies were indeed made in-house.

“Bloody!” He swore again underneath his breath as he stumbled over a prone body stressed in tight blacks. He eyed the ground narrowly and spotted another body a few feet away, but dressed in leather and denim.

He shook his head, wished that he had more than his regulation firearm, and made his way quietly to the glimmer of neon light ahead.

“Don’t be foolish, Richard,” Marlowe chided, like a disappointed father lecturing his wayward son on yet another misdeed. “You had to know it would come to this if you started your side ventures.”

“Bugger off!”

Marlowe clicked his tongue. “What was it? The money, the risk—or was it the perks? I hear that certain young ladies do find petty criminals to be thrilling.”

Lestrade broke out in sweat when he heard the click. What in God’s name was Marlowe doing? It didn’t sound like he had backup, and he had to have a go at the man with a gun?

“You’re an excellent shot, Richard. I saw your training videos. You’re very talented,” Marlowe said. “But I assure you that I too had to take combat training, and I remember enough of it to be difficult.”

The young man—Davies—fumbled with his words and ended up mumbling a little before he threw all caution to the winds. “I’ll let it go!”

“Let what go?” Marlowe asked slowly, his tone no longer so confident. Lestrade wondered if Davies noticed too and risked a look around the corner. After getting blinded by the lights for his efforts, he yanked his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. Good God, he was looking like a biker and taking his gun out to do something he hadn’t even properly thought out yet.

“I’ve bought myself a bit of insurance, Holmes. Not really omniscient, are you?” Davies jeered, his voice steadying. “Nobody ever really notices the dustmen going about their business, not even the British government’s elite.”

Marlowe didn’t say anything, as he gauged Davies’s veracity.

Lestrade kept his eyes on the scene but reached down to feel for his cell phone. Bloody hell, should he even call for back up? He’d followed the conversation best he could, and he had the impression that this was beyond their usual hostage situation.

“Richard, are you truly thinking?” Marlowe’s unexpectedly impatient tone made Lestrade flinch and tense. Davies was unpredictable, and Marlowe went on poking him, like an ignorant child with a stick in the fire.

“We employ the finest bomb’s experts in the country, and you expect that we’d fail to notice your actions? My opinion of your intelligence is falling drastically. I had hopes that you’d make a better showing.”

Blast it, man, what are you thinking? Lestrade inched closer as Marlowe’s sardonic tones continued to echo off the cold cement walls.

“Didn’t you mention in your initial interview that you were going to ‘prove them all wrong about you’? Being the bastard son of a prominent businessman and a rather notorious scarlet lady must be so galling.”

“Shut your gob!”

Marlowe tsk-ed and tilted his head, looking at Davies sideways. “Your plebeian roots are showing through,” he said almost gently.

Fuck it. Lestrade rushed forward, aimed for Davies’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

Only to see Davies already being slammed to the ground. And Marlowe turning to regard him with utter calm, his hands hanging empty at his sides.

Whirling around, Lestrade noted the sniper coming from a previously hidden door to the left of Davies’ location. The sniper kicked Davies’ gun away from him and rifled through his pockets before coming up with a small pistol and a small round package.

Marlowe crossed over and took the package, murmuring a thank you to the sniper, who nodded to Lestrade as she walked past, disassembling the gun and pulling out car keys.

“After Freya contacts the office, she’ll escort you back to your apartment. I believe that your work day has long been over, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade jerked his attention back to Marlowe and away from the woman he recognized as being the chauffer. Mechanically, he checked his watch, which glowed softly with the numbers 9:00pm.

“Right,” Lestrade said, after clearing his throat. He groaned inwardly upon remembering that he’d have to write up a report of some kind to explain discharging his weapon, for no reason as it turned out.

He walked stiffly, somehow embarrassed but not knowing why, alongside Marlowe through the shop’s more benign interior to the curb. He almost startled at the hand landing on his bicep.

“I didn’t expect your presence, Detective Inspector. But it was—I appreciated it, nonetheless.” Marlowe’s words were rushed, and Lestrade had to separate them out before he understood what Marlowe had said.

“Well, you didn’t need my help, but you’re welcome.”

Marlowe nodded vaguely, and they climbed into the idling car that took off smoothly as soon as they were in.

Feeling on edge, Lestrade fidgeted, wishing the adrenaline would settle. Come now, he told his body, you weren’t even in the fight!

Marlowe himself also seemed to suffer the effects of a blood-pumping encounter. He shifted twice, tried to still himself forcefully, failed, and finally resigned himself to his body’s demands.

Deciding that they could both do with a distraction, Lestrade broke the quiet. “So, you’re a government man. Sounded like you don’t usually get into the field.”

“No. My role requires me to stay behind-the-scenes. Tonight was rather unusual, and I suppose my agents could have taken care of things, but I find that I’ve been feeling a little restless lately. Reckless.”

It wasn’t a chat-up line, but Lestrade felt quite hot under the collar, and judging by the way that Marlowe’s eyes darkened—

Doing his best to return the hot pressure pressed against him, Lestrade reached for the fine coat before him, about to push it off those fine shoulders, when he remembered their location.

Pushing Marlowe back gently, Lestrade caught the stiffening man’s wrist and suggested hopefully, “Maybe we can take this back to my flat.”

Marlowe’s lips formed a smile that lent appealing, if unexpected, warmth to his features, and Lestrade felt a melting sensation in his chest.

***********

Lestrade woke up feeling rather satisfied, but for a reason he didn’t quite remember until he almost rolled on top of a shoulder that didn’t belong to him.

Simply lying in his sheets and watching the smooth expanse in front of him, Lestrade felt like whistling and sharing his glee with the world, but he refrained. He rather liked Marlowe and didn’t want to share any unflattering habits until the man stopped acting so skittish.

Lestrade’s good mood dimmed a bit as he remembered Marlowe’s discomfort with sound. Every time Lestrade had tried saying his name, Marlowe had twitched and stopped his lips with a kiss. They had done a lot of kissing, nice but disquieting as Lestrade now recalled the reason in the early morning.

“Hmm.”

The soft sound reminded Lestrade of how Marlowe had reacted to a hand wandering down his stomach last night.

Lestrade grinned and began to reach out. Marlowe seemed the type to wake up slowly. Maybe he wouldn’t mind staying in bed a little—

“Ah!”

“God! My e—!”

Ten painful minutes later, Lestrade held an ice pack to his eye and revised his earlier opinion of Marlowe’s sleeping habits. Bloody hell. The man woke up like he’d been caught asleep in a fight zone.

“I apologize for that,” Marlowe finally said, hands clasped in front of him, tightening a little as he spoke.

“Right. ’S fine.”

They lapsed into silence.

Lestrade fumbled to say something else that would break the heavy awkward mood that had descended. But a sinking feeling grew inside as he realized that he knew absolutely nothing about the man he’d slept with last night. The man who had brought him down to a drug den with no prior warning and then faced off a crazed bomber with nothing more than a smile and a black umbrella.

Someone’s phone chirped. They both patted awkwardly at their pockets until Marlowe unearthed his and read the text message.

Marlowe’s eyes seemed to brighten. How he could tell that, with the man’s eyes down, Lestrade had no idea.

“I’m afraid that I have to go.” Marlowe suddenly had his tie straightened, coat on, and hair perfectly in place. Lestrade blinked at him, bemused at the temporal disturbance.

“Okay. I, well, hope everything’s settled from last night.” At the quick unreadable look from Marlowe, Lestrade added confusedly, “That Davies, er, Sallow fellow.”

“Yes, of course. Sallow is no longer a problem for England, and his compatriots will be quickly rounded up and dealt with. I hope you will be discreet, Detective…Gregory?”

“Of course,” Lestrade answered, trying not to feel offended at either of Marlowe’s faux pas. The man had to get back to his job. So did Lestrade, for that matter.

Lestrade thought of Marlowe every once in a while, but he would push back the memory before it could occupy his mind. He felt haunted enough by the children harmed, women beaten, and men killed monthly in London.

He didn’t need any emotional problems stemming from a one-night stand.

***********

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Upon hearing the Superintendent’s voice, Lestrade rose quickly to his feet and made a grab for the substantial stack of papers that nearly veered off the edge.

“Superintendent Witte.” Lestrade nodded pleasantly to his supervisor’s superior and wondered what brought the man here; the last time they had spoken would probably have been his predecessor’s retirement party four or so years ago.

Witte sat on the lone visitor’s chair and regarded Lestrade with a bemused, yet pleasant, expression, his heavy brows angling inquisitively. “Well, Lestrade, I heard from our mutual friend that you are to be commended for your efforts the previous week.”

“My efforts?” Lestrade repeated, as he resumed his efforts to tidy his desk, moving around inkless pens, rusted clips, crumpled up photos, dusty toffees.

“Yes, yes, Mr. M said that you’d assisted him assiduously.” Witte chuckled and leaned in to speak confidingly, “I do believe that once Chief Inspector Morgan retires, you could look forward to a nice move up.”

Lestrade forced a smile and continued cleaning, unconsciously crumpling up a burger wrapper with considerably more force than necessary. “Well, I—I see, thank you very much, sir.”

After Witte left, Lestrade grabbed a packet of antibacterial wipes and wiped down his desk furiously. He threw the now gray wipe into the bin.

He supposed it was not quite as insulting as wrinkled bills on the bedside table.

Bastard.


	2. Chapter 2

“Detective Inspector,” Donovan sighed deeply at his door. “We have a tosser from the drug bust demanding to talk with you. I wouldn’t bother you, but he’s starting to aggravate his cellmates because he won’t shut it.”

“It’s a rough crowd we’ve got tonight. Is it the skinny black-haired one who mouthed off to Anderson? I knew it. All right, I’ll come down for a bit.”

Lestrade pulled the young man from the cell, just in the nick of time, he guessed, from the snarls that erupted from the more brawny inhabitants.

“Mr. Tom Barnaby,” Lestrade read slowly and skeptically. The identification card softly gleamed in the light and seemed oddly clean for something the man must have been carrying around since it was issued.

He checked the birth date, looked hard at Barnaby, and scoffed to himself. Those young fools never seemed to learn to use an age that was halfway believable. Barnaby should’ve tried for early twenties and grown a beard.

“Right,” Lestrade said, “What is it that you wanted to tell me, Mr. Barnaby?”

Barnaby’s eyes were oddly dilated, but he managed to hold himself upright as he leaned forward. “Your subordinates are incompetent and deliberately deaf to the most obvious facts.”

Taken aback at the boy’s vehemence, Lestrade laughed disbelievingly and wondered if he wasn’t just wasting his time with a delusional druggie.

“Oh, really, you want to elaborate on that?”

A smile briefly lit up the boy’s pale features, and he sounded almost sociable, as he explained, “You have the Wandsworth Bomber in your jail.”

Lestrade’s heart stopped. “What the hell do you mean?”

Barnaby looked at him as though he were simple. He repeated slowly, “You have the Wandsworth Bomber in your jail. You’ve got your man. But you obviously don’t know it.”

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked, mind racing. They had some men in for drunk and disorderly, one for spousal abuse, and more than a handful from the drug bust that included this Barnaby. “One of your junkie friends?”

“No,” Barnaby snorted. “None of them have the brains to set up that sort of operation. Alfred Williams, the brown haired man with the broken nose. In for starting that bar fight in the Rooster’s Head. He probably stopped in for a drink before going on his way to prepare another explosion.”

Not quite convinced, Lestrade demanded, “Where’s your proof?”

“Look at his hands. He’ll resist though because of the little splinters he got from stealing sawdust from the nearest lumberyard. Surprisingly painful when someone inadvertently applies too much pressure when shaking hands.”

“There’re loads of people who buy sawdust. My own aunt uses it to line her hen coop.”

“Buying, yes. Stealing, no. Talk to Morse and Sons Lumberyard, and they’ll tell you about the stranger they chased off their property two days ago.”

Lestrade thought perhaps he was talking to a young accomplice who’d gotten bent out of shape and decided to turn on his partner.

“All right, suppose I believe you, how do I know you’re not working with Williams? It’s the only way I figure that you could know when he stole the sawdust.”

Outrage infused Barnaby with a healthy bit of red. “If I were to become a criminal, I assure you that I’d do it properly. I wouldn’t leave behind even trace evidence like sawdust splinters.”

Before Lestrade could persist, Barnaby added, “Besides, if you bothered to read the papers now and then—“

“I do.”

“Then you’d recall the news item about a break-in at Morse and Sons. Page 2 in the local section. Thursday’s.”

Rifling through the paper he’d put in the recycling bin, Lestrade retorted, “You want me to believe that an ordinary bloke knows the connection between sawdust and dynamite?”

Hell, even Lestrade hadn’t known the significance of the lab results until after a crash course by one of the lab technicians who’d drawn a helpful diagram of dynamite.

Barnaby shifted irritably in his seat. “I’m not ordinary.” He was about to add more when Donovan came in, looking ill at ease.

“Posh bloke from before to see you, sir,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth; she jerked a shoulder in Barnaby’s direction. “About him.”

As they walked out to the waiting room, Lestrade was about to ask Donovan what she meant when he heard the tapping of an umbrella.

Brilliant. That posh bloke.

“Detective Inspector.” Marlowe nodded calmly, but his eyes glittered with a flare of emotion. “I believe you have a young man named Tom Barnaby in your custody.”

“That’s right,” Lestrade said, forcing himself to hold Marlowe’s gaze. “Don’t tell me he’s one of yours.”

Marlowe chuckled dryly. “No, but we are acquainted. I doubt he’d be interested in seeing me right now, so if you’d be kind enough to pass on a message?”

***********

“Do you know someone called Mycroft Holmes?” Lestrade asked shortly, rather preoccupied, one part giddy at seeing Marlowe again, one part furious at having been given a false name months ago.

Black eyes stared at him scornfully. “He’s my worst enemy.”

Lestrade stiffened at the candid reply. If this Mycroft Holmes meant the boy harm, then they’d be hard put to stop the bloke. “What does he want you for? Is he going to hurt you?”

Apparently taken aback at Lestrade’s concern, Barnaby glanced away at the floor. “No, unless you count his ability to be incredibly long-winded. He’s my older brother.”

“Well, I suppose ‘worst enemy’ can be an apt descriptor of an older brother,” Lestrade said, relieved that he wasn’t caught up in some movie-esque government conspiracy.

Lestrade turned his chair around and sat down facing Barnaby. Time for his nice old police officer spiel. He said it so often he really ought to patent it one day.

“Here now, Barnaby. I can see you don’t get on with your brother, but take these facts into consideration. You have family; you have someone to take care of you while you get off these drugs—“

“Don’t patronize me.” Barnaby sneered. “I know what I’m doing. And I’m not about to take advice from a two-bit bobby who couldn’t even recognize the man wanted nationwide for the Wandsworth bomb scare.”

Blast it; the kindly policeman spiel wouldn’t work with this one. God knew why some folks wanted to procreate and have snotty teenagers running around, doing themselves harm, and ignoring well-meant advice.

“No, I couldn’t; you could. Well done. Genius of you. But I can’t really give you credit now, can I? As far as we all know, you’re a drug addict,” Lestrade said sharply. “Like it or not, society judges you on your habits, and right now, you’d be hard put to find anyone willing to go the extra mile on your say-so.”

The spots of red grew on Barnaby’s cheekbones, and he looked as though he were suffering an intense bout of fever. He opened his mouth before abruptly shutting it with a click.

“I, fine—all right, you have a point,” he pressed his lips together and glared at Lestrade for apparently being the first one to give him the facts of life.

Lestrade nodded tiredly. “Right, well, on that note, I’ll check what you said about Williams, and if you’re right, then you can look into working for the police when you’re older. Incentive to go clean, eh?”

Barnaby’s pleased expression turned into undignified sputtering that was interrupted by Mycroft Holmes’s entrance into the room.

Holmes smiled pleasantly at Lestrade before putting a firm hand on Barnaby’s shoulder and steering him towards the door. “You’re skin and bones, Sherlock. What would Mummy say if she happened to see you?”

“You’re an interfering git, Mycroft!” Barnaby hissed, shrugging off Holmes’s hand and stalking out the room by himself.

Holmes paused on his way out and half-turned as though to say something to Lestrade, but was interrupted by an irate “Well?” from outside.

***********

Casting an eye at the clock, Lestrade put the last of his paperwork in order and debated vigorously with himself before opening his lower left cabinet. He rifled through the alphabet before he reached Potter, Anna, a young mother found strangled in the park three years ago. He’d take it home, as he’d taken other cold cases, and read it over to see whether he couldn’t find a new lead.

He pulled up his lapels and started legging it for the train when a long black car pulled up beside him.

Looked like a newly married couple, he thought idly before the door opened, and Mycroft Holmes peered out at him.

“Detective Inspector. If I could have a word?”

Lestrade looked around, the streetlights flickering, the road empty but for them. He was tired, unkempt, and eager for a cuppa; and would rather tell Holmes to take a flying leap. But his self-perseverance took hold of him.

The car’s engines thrummed gently, as they supposedly headed towards Lestrade’s flat, and Lestrade occupied himself with the noise while Holmes remained quiet for the first several blocks.

“I hope Sherlock is more help than nuisance.”

Lestrade grunted softly. “It’s debatable each time. But we grabbed a murderer today at the docks who thought he was very clever. The poor boy’s family will have some comfort.”

Holmes nodded silently, and Lestrade wondered how it all sounded to a man who worked behind the scenes, pulled strings, and presumably worked for the safety of the whole country, not just the individuals.

As the car slowed to a stop, Lestrade put his hand on the car door, ready to get out, only to be stopped by Holmes, who handed him the file he’d nearly forgotten.

“Detective Inspector, I realized that my recommendation might have been misconstrued. I would like you to know that I choose the best people. I don’t make them.”

Lestrade blinked at the oddly sincere statement and felt embarrassed at his earlier hostility. “Oh, uh, thank you.” He wanted to add more but really couldn’t think of anything, so he nodded dumbly and got out of the car.

Just as Holmes was about to shut the car door, Lestrade leaned back in and blurted, “I don’t suppose you’re—want to come in for a cuppa?”

Mycroft Holmes gave a startled look, followed by the beginnings of a smile.

***********

Lestrade took off his watch, unbuttoned his shirt’s collar, and slipped on the nicely warmed house slippers that had been left for him.

He wondered if Mycroft had eaten but didn’t want to disturb the man in case of work brought home, so he quietly made his way up to the second floor. He knocked gently on the study door before opening it to find Mycroft sipping thoughtfully from a brandy.

“Done for the day?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft smiled faintly but genuinely, and he poured Lestrade a gin and tonic before answering. “For now, yes. I can’t deny the possibility of being called upon in the middle of the night. Again. I apologize for last night. I hope your wallet wasn’t too badly stained.”

Lestrade shrugged it off. “The old thing’s fine.” He could feel himself redden a bit as he added, “I’m glad you liked what I picked out. I’ve never chosen that sort of gift before.”

Mycroft gazed at him fondly. Lestrade could remember thinking once that the expression looked alien on the man, but gradually, Mycroft had given him that look more and more often, and he had simply gotten used to it. “Your efforts factor greatly in my appreciation. Aside from that, I truly enjoy the fragrance. You shouldn’t underestimate your tastes.”

“With all your flattery, I don’t see the reason to stop,” Lestrade said, as he moved closer to the window to meet Mycroft.

 

Coda:

Sherlock’s head jerked up from his violin, and Mycroft irritated him further by stepping into the room and seating himself on the cushioned armchair, umbrella to the side.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock sniffed the air before falling back on the sofa and pinning him with a disdainful look.

“Lestrade’s wallet is on the bookshelf. John told me to return it this afternoon. But since you’ll be seeing him this evening, you can do that.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “He can’t help you with your work. You can’t tell him a lot of things. Often he feels uncomfortable with your sense of morals and boundaries. So why do you bother?”

Sherlock could be so deliberately obtuse, Mycroft thought idly. But he supposed a younger brother would always seem so.

“Would you find a new flat-mate if John still couldn’t learn and apply your methods?” Mycroft countered. “If he never acclimated to your penchant for nailing crime scene photos to the walls?”

He punctuated his point by leaning back and drawing Sherlock’s attention to the slightly worn, navy and gray striped caftan that had shortly appeared after the move-in.

Sherlock refused to answer, turning back to his violin, long fingers stroking across the strings as the smooth body rested softly in his other arm.


End file.
